Notice of Condemnation

Alright Body, it's now week three of Operation Work/Death. By now you're pretty much used to the fact that I'm seriously only allowing you 4, if you're lucky, 5 hours of sleep daily. There have been minimal side-effects. Honestly, the whole delayed left eye blink was pretty disturbing for the first several days (or were they only hours?). But after discovering that my eyes would eventually be permanently squinted? Really isn't all that noticeable now. I can't recall a time that I haven't been at least 99% caffeinated. Which has lead to its own side-effects, namely, hypersensitivity of the senses. Especially the "HOLYGAWDWHATWASTHAT?!!?!?" sense. Oh what was it really? A fly landing... on me... felt through my jacket. I've been wrong all these years, I am NOT Batman. I am actually Spiderman. Wrap your head around that!

*Side note: I can fall asleep walking. No, not to be confused with sleep walking. I literally fall asleep while walking. Managed to escape without injury... so far.

Look, so here's the deal B, you're used to this treatment, a'ight? So now I’m going to start incorporating daily semi-weekly gym visits after you get off of work at 6am, still with me? No guh, I'm not talking about a light jog around the 'hood. I'm talking RUNNING, like SUICIDES running. Yeah, that's right. What else you ask? Piano lessons on Thursdays at the PEAK of your exhaustion, photo-shoots booked on every Saturday until you croak. Oh, and also, let me mention that I'll be cutting your calorie intake to 1200 a day? Yeah, even though you're awake/dead for 20 out of the 24. Deal with it, you can have absolutely all the cocaine caffeine, you need because at the end of this I want you looking like no one else but Lindsay Lohan. What's that you say? "Bring it"? Man that's hot.

Time well spent in front of a mirror

You're annoying and rude. Do you see that you're being transported publicly? We all paid to be on this contraption, and you're imposing on the silence with your blatant disregard for the other passengers. Why have you decided it is acceptable to listen to music via your cell phone speaker?

Deep breath, close my eyes. The other side: It’s possible that you love music as much as I do and happen to have forgotten a personal listening apparatus. I’ll give it a chance, so I'm straining to hear the lyrics and even putting forth a halfhearted attempt to acknowledge the beat. Quickly frustrated, I give up because cell phone speakers suck and ya know what? So does that song! But perhaps you’re partaking in the same chill inducing music eargasm I achieve from my own personal selections of music. Maybe other passengers are even enjoy- nope, I glance around, the people who aren’t homeless and earbudless are tapping their feet in annoyance and glaring at you. I chuckle a bit. Amazing how in this moment I'm stricken by how much I strive for acceptance only to be humbled by how adverse I am to tolerance. Cause that's what that noise blaring out of your shitty cell phone speaker deserves, my tolerance and perhaps even more so the respect to play it through something a little more personal and a lot less tone deficient.

Resigned, I lean back in an attempt to dismiss you to carry on invading the section of this train with that racket while I carefully place my headphones over my ears. I blast the volume to ensure that it’s drowning out your trebled cacophony and I'm sure the elderly woman next to me can hear my music clearly. She sighs and closes her eyes, so yeah, she can definitely hear it. I don't turn it down, lost already in the tune and smiling humbly because your supposed ignorantly rude behavior just taught me a little bit about how much alike we are and how I'm totally willing to accept that.

It doesn't take an MD to see that you're OPENLY judging me...

When possible, I've started checking Dr. As a prefix for my mail. Do you know how rewarding it is to receive mail to Dr. Rachael M Weaver? ESPECIALLY when your really attractive mailbox neighbor is kind of curiously eyeballing your... Wait, okay, wow, that’s actually strange. WHY are you looking at my mail?

Do I not LOOK like I could be a doctor? Why, cause I’m not wearing scrubs? Well maybe I’m not a resident or a dentist! Huh? What about that? Maybe I wear business casual clothes only to don a white coat and stethogra--scope(?) when I walk into the office of my very OWN private practice?! That's fine I don't even have to be an MD. How insultingly presumptuous do you plan on being over a piece of my mail which so obviously states that I have a doctorate? Truth, maybe I'm not old enough to have graduated medical school, but that doesn't mean I don't have some totally valid doctorate in something deliciously absurd, like, Poultry or Epic Winning. How about that, Debra McDoubterson?!

Alright, well, as fleetingly “attractive” as I thought you WERE, the fact that you’re so openly judging me and completely violating my privacy at the mailbox is a rather clear indication that you’re definitely not in THIS doctor’s league, okay? And no, the fact that I'm holding a copy of Maxim magazine is definitely NOT why you're scrutinizing me. Cause, yeah hate to break it to you, but according to them (them being Maxim address people. Very respectable. Don't argue.) I am, in fact, a doctor. Gah, the nerve of some people.

You're killin' me, Smalls!

Why is it that so many high school and college athletes feel the need to work that into practically every conversation? I get it, I really do, it was a huge part of your life, but ya know what? I’m not relating. In fact, I stopped listening as soon as the word “ball” came out of your mouth. And by the way, do you see this book that I'm holding in front of my face? My eyes aren't just going back and forth because I'm pretending to read, I'm actually attempting to READ this BOOK! You boasting about the fact that you were gonna be the next Alex Rodriguez before that unfortunate groin(vomit) injury is not impressing me. This means you have to cease incessantly reminding me that you “played ball” in college.

For the love of Pete Rose, remove Sandlot from your instant queue and then retire your college baseball apparel. Because your beer belly? Yeah, it’s preventing you from tucking in that shirt that fit your 18 year old body. And you know what that means? You're assaulting my retinas because I can definitely see the bottom of your baby bump. Finally, please, for health code reasons, WASH your HAT, because it smells like decade old unwashed dreads and that is in no way shape or form “lucky”. It is quite possible the reason you have not “gotten lucky” (as you so eloquently put it) SINCE you “played ball” which was roughly fifteen years and 3.2 million beers ago.

Two Steps Backward and Sixteen Forward

I turn to walk away because I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because this much wisdom and good nature can't be bestowed upon me without some horrific end. All the bravery and clarity thrust upon me can't just be grace, it has to be the means to a terrible end that's closing in on me and that I'm trying desperately to determine. Straining my eyes, heart and mind to predetermine so I can keep from falling. This is my feeble attempt to place more distance between myself and my fate. Your fate. The fate that you've chosen for me and the one I'm so paralyzingly fearful of.

Finally, the clarity comes back and with it you allow this tiny seed that has me wondering, hoping, that all this preparation, all these gifts are not for something terrible afterall. These gifts will be called upon and not by some horrific and dastardly event, but by the trials that I face daily. The words, the disappointments, my truths, me. Maybe you're molding me into someone and something that I'm to carry out daily through Your words, Your breath, Your hands. You taking over me because I'm tired of fighting you yet again. So here I am, falling again. Falling so quickly to my knees in my tears and handing you my truths, my heartache and troubles. Because no matter how many steps I take away, no matter how many times I trip and collapse I'll always be righted. Because your hand is there and that hand has helped me and shaped me into precisely what you've ordained. Through your grace, no matter how much distance I put between us, I'll always come crawling, running, sprinting back to you because I know you'll be waiting with an open hand. There's nothing to turn from, because I'm not mine, I'm yours.

I'm just so damn tired...

When people form opinions based solely on emotion it's called passion, when people base opinions on irrefutable facts it's called logic, and when people base opinions on their emotional attachment to conveying cohesive facts it's called passionate logic. How is it that someone can justify in their own mind and then aloud their emotional attachment to non-existent facts? Bush caused Katrina, 2Pac is alive, Al Gore invented the internet, lose 20 pounds in a day, Lady Gaga is a hermaphrodite, "I did not have sexual relations with that woman", Miley Cyrus can sing, Sarah Palin would've made a great Vice President, gay marriage is wrong, Obama isn't a socialist, etc.


Listen up people, I know you fulfill a need in American society but I certainly don't need to hear you speak of anything that doesn't directly involve what I want from the Chick-fil-a menu (Gawd, I love Chick-fil-a...). Politics are a sham, America is a disgrace and the citizens are cowards. We don't want to fight for our rights in wars, we don't want to pay for the things we buy, we don't want to earn the money we make and we certainly don't want to play fair. Give us a leg up and we'll forget whose hands our feet stood upon as soon as we reach the top. We're more proud of being Celtics fans than we are of being Americans. Nothing comes from the heart because no one seems to have one. It's constantly about us. People actually pay other people to listen to them talk about themselves. There wasn't any TIME for that a hundred years ago. Most people were too busy wondering if they were going to eat dinner. People earned what they had and they died for their freedom. Feeling convicted? Feeling as if you're part of the problem? Feeling victimized?

Because there's a difference, and you should see it

I watch people, and please don’t confuse “people watching” with what I’ve just confessed. I sit, stand, hover, crouch, lie and watch people. What draws my attention to them is unknown to me. It’s clearly some kind of attraction but the formula that connects me is never the same. The only fact that remains constant, is that I’m addicted to watching. I’m consistently evaluating who will ultimately receive my full attention. And please don’t confuse “full attention” with ignoring the people who are engaging me in conversation. I am completely invested in each and every one of you in a group, but am most definitely watching one of you effortlessly. If you aren’t speaking, I’m analyzing each movement you make because I’m fabricating your story. A story that I begin to weave in my head. I ponder what your mannerisms mean. Why do you have a small scar on your cheek? Do you look more like your mother or father? You bounce your leg incessantly which means you have other nervous behaviors. Cracking your knuckles? Playing with your necklace, earrings or the ring on your finger? Tapping on the table? I’ll keep an eye out. What will your order to drink? Will it contain alcohol? Why or why not, and if it does, what attaches you to that drink? Is this the first time you’ve ordered it, your favorite or just a security blanket drink. Why didn’t you order something alcoholic? Are you straight edge, Mormon, a recovering alcoholic out with your friends for the first time trying to show them your sobering progress? How do you know these people and how well do you know each of them individually? Are you wearing a guise right now, and if you are how ensconced in it are you? What types of music do you listen to? And do you use the poetry of the lyrics and enchantment of melody to immerse yourself into your emotions? Are you happy? Do you love yourself? Do you know how to love? Was your childhood pet a parrot, gerbil, cat, dog, horse? Did parents read you bed-time stories? When you revealed to them that you wanted to be a Ninja Turtle when you grew up did they scoff disdainfully and painfully remind you that was, of course, impossible? Or did they gently take your hand and softly kiss the top of your head while encouraging you to be absolutely anything you wanted. Do you sleep well? Reoccurring nightmares? Are you Christian? Do you even believe in a God? What drove you away and why? Have you ever experienced profound loss? More, more, more I need more. Which is why I’m still watching, placing, remembering. I have to know, I have to see and understand so that I will know. I have to see.

I’m enthralled with your complexity. These things, these details, your pieces are important to me because I need to study them. Turn them over and over in my hand til I’ve memorized their jagged shape and soft edges. All these varying sizes and shapes placed together to form what is. It’s important that I know where to place each detail in the disassembled masterpiece that is you. Getting it right the first time means not having to own up to my wild presumptions. I place some recklessly due to impatience and others carefully with truth. It’s in this way that I’m gently, violently, avidly constructing. Desperate to unravel the intricate design, flip the puzzle and finally reveal the picture, thereby destroying the very conundrum that motivated me to
start this, to continue this until...

Eventually I lose interest. It’s inevitability and it’s one of my truths. It may be 3 minutes, 10, a few hours, days, a late night phone chat I’m anxious to disconnect, weeks, years a lifetime. I move on to the next enigma. There’s an undetermined amount of time that will elapse until my eyes and brain have decided that they know you and you’re no longer a mystery to solve. Your habits and stories, their origin is known and there’s nothing left to learn, because I’ve seen you, ya know? You’re a wreck, just as I am. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing you weren’t. Wishing that you were the one human being on this miserable earth who locks eyes with me and convey that you saw me, even briefly, fleetingly. Because you’ve been watching too and you see me.